


Of Books and Love

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cameo from April Dancer, Cute, Fluff, Illya is a cinnamon roll, M/M, Napoleon loves him a lot, Oneshot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9602024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: It's 1am when Illya finally finishes his paperwork. He puts his pen down and stretches his arms above his head with a yawn. Outside, snow falls quietly from the darkened sky. The building is quiet around him, save for the small, distant sounds of papers exiting a photocopier and the quiet chatter by the coffee machine down the hall.UNCLE headquarters is never empty, but, at moments like this, it's peaceful.Illya walks home from work and contemplates that which he loves most.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful people!
> 
> I'm back with more Napollya, because these two give me feels! This is just a cute, quick oneshot.
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

It's 1am when Illya finally finishes his paperwork. He puts his pen down and stretches his arms above his head with a yawn. Outside, snow falls quietly from the darkened sky. The building is quiet around him, save for the small, distant sounds of papers exiting a photocopier and the quiet chatter by the coffee machine down the hall. 

UNCLE headquarters is never empty, but, at moments like this, it's peaceful. 

He files the paperwork away, leaves it in the tray to be collected in the morning. He shrugs on his jacket, winds his scarf around his neck, then reaches for his coat. 

He flicks off his desk lamp, inhales in the twilight of the room. Coat on, he exits the room and closes the door behind him. It locks with a click. April smiles at him when he passes her in the hallway. 

'Night Illya,' she says.

'Goodnight,' says Illya.

His keycard swipes green at the lift. The doors slide open and he steps in. They close, and he presses the button for street level. Surrounded by the steady whirr of the pulley system, Illya leans back against the cool metal behind him and closes his eyes. 

The doors ding open and he steps out. Illya nods at the man behind the front desk. He smiles back. Then, Illya's stepping out onto the street. Snow crunches beneath his boots. 

He begins walking.

It's a Tuesday, and the streets are empty of people and white with snow. Hands in his pockets, Illya contemplates tomorrow's schedule. Perhaps, he thinks, he can make time to make that restaurant reservation. Get the nice table by the window. Maybe buy some flowers. A good whiskey.

He crosses a street, breath ghosting in front of his face. 

Saturday night might be the best time for it, he thinks. After the gallery. Then, maybe afterwards, Central Park and good coffee.

He passes a jewellers. Golden rings glisten in the window. Illya is reminded of the one sitting behind Mikhail Bulgakov's writings back at his apartment. He smiles, and continues walking. 

A car passes, the gold of its headlights making the snow and ice sparkle, if only for a moment. 

Illya turns a corner, ducks into his apartment building. The air is warm and still. He takes the stairs to his floor, the grit under his shoes cracking on the stone staircase. Hands pink with cold, he fishes for his key in his pockets. 

By the time he's found it, he's at his door. It unlocks easily and creaks as he opens it. He steps inside. The hallway is dark, awash with the indigo hues of night.

Illya smiles, closes the door behind him. He takes off his coat and scarf, hangs them up next to the tailored, dark woollen blazer. Next, he removes his shoes. They go next to the oxfords sitting on the wooden flooring. 

Soundlessly, he moves to the living room. Soft, golden light spills from the doorway, out into the hall. Illya steps into it, and smiles.

In one plush, leather armchair, is Napoleon. Features soft in sleep, a book lies long forgotten on his lap. Illya gently takes the book away. _The Picture of Dorian Grey_. Napoleon's favourite. 

The book goes on the shelf, next to the others sitting in the oak bookcase. Illya's eyes fall on Bulgakov's book, the name glimmering out at him in embellished silver. He runs his fingers over the spine, casts a look to what lies behind it. 

It's still there. Perfect and undisturbed. 

Napoleon makes a small snuffling sound in his sleep. Illya smiles, turns back. He hasn't the heart to wake him. Napoleon looks so very peaceful. His neck will ache later, though, if Illya leaves him there. 

Illya kneels down in front of Napoleon, and places a gentle hand on the American's knee. 

'Luchik,' he says softly.

Napoleon's eyes flicker open. 'Hey.' He smiles sleepily. 'I fell asleep.'

Illya smiles. 'Yes.' Napoleon yawns, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 'Come on, bed.'

Napoleon nods, a small, soft smile playing on his lips. Illya stands, holds out a hand for Napoleon to take, which he does. Napoleon stands, nose almost brushing Illya's. He smiles, leans forwards to capture his Russian's lips in a kiss. He pulls back, blue eyes sparkling like the snow in the headlights. Illya can't help but smile. 

As they walk to bed, hand in hand, Napoleon trailing behind him, Illya thinks of the ring in the box behind his book, of the restaurant, and the gallery. He holds Napoleon's hand just that little bit tighter, and flicks off the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please, drop me a comment and let me know what you think!


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